There is a certain type of genius
Who is proud to know so much
He skipped a thousand showers because he doesn't need to touch
He hides his bastard faces behind thick panes of glass
They're all that separate him from apish lower class
And the stench of love keeps snaking up his nose
Through all the snot his sinuses can hold
Believing all the lies he's been told
Grows old so old
A Friday alone with friends he's got but one or two
They're geniuses like him you see
Nothing like all of you
They banter and they languish
With all ostentatious plea
They're all so trendy and which they're underground machines
And he wont be there when Jesus comes around
He'll write a book on what his studies found
And deep inside hell learn to fear the sound of hope
He says why should I even try
I will let the oil soak in my face until the pimples shine
Like tiny mountains set in place
This lonely valley mine
Between the hills of opulence
They grow with strength and time
Scarlet clusters spring from skin to hide my missing spots
And he wont be there when Jesus comes around
He'll write a book on what his studies found
And deep inside hell want to hear the sound of hope
When the world stabs you in the back
The worst thing you could do is become indifferent to
There is no they
No idiot brigade
Only a thousand you equally as bruised.